Chapter 39 - The Mother We BuriedNobody noticed I had stopped breathing.
My eyes remained fixed on the photograph.
My mother.
Elizabeth Whitmore.
Smiling.
Standing beside Michael.
Six days ago.
Impossible.
I had lowered her coffin into the ground myself.
I had watched the casket disappear beneath the earth.
I had delivered her eulogy.
I had carried her photograph every day since.
Claire slowly reached for the picture.
"It could be edited."
I wanted to believe her.
I truly did.
But Elias quietly shook his head.
"No."
Claire looked at him.
"How can you be so sure?"
Elias's voice was barely above a whisper.
"Because I took that photograph."
The room froze.
"You..."
Elias nodded.
"Michael asked me to."
"When?"
"Six days ago."
My knees almost gave out.
"So you've been lying to us this entire time."
"No."
"I've been protecting someone."
"Who?"
He looked directly into my eyes.
"Your mother."
Anger replaced disbelief.
I grabbed Elias by the collar.
"You expect me to believe my mother is alive?"
"I buried her!"
Elias didn't resist.
"You buried someone."
"But not Elizabeth."
I let go.
The words echoed in my head.
Not Elizabeth.
Then whose body...
Had we buried?
Claire immediately called the forensic laboratory.
Within an hour...
A court order was obtained.
The Whitmore family crypt was opened before sunrise.
Cold rain fell across the cemetery.
No reporters.
No relatives.
Only police.
Forensic specialists.
And us.
The coffin was lifted carefully.
The lid opened.
Silence.
The body was there.
Perfectly preserved.
The medical examiner compared dental records.
Then frowned.
"These records don't match."
My heart pounded.
"What do you mean?"
He looked up slowly.
"This woman isn't Elizabeth Whitmore."
The world stopped.
The fingerprints didn't match.
The DNA didn't match.
Even the surgical scar my mother carried after an accident...
Was missing.
Claire whispered,
"So..."
"Who did we bury?"
No one answered.
Because no one knew.
That evening...
Michael sent another message.
Not words.
Coordinates.
One location.
A lighthouse overlooking the northern coast.
And beneath the coordinates...
A single sentence.
"Come alone if you want your mother back."
Against everyone's advice...
I went.
The lighthouse had been abandoned for years.
The stairs creaked beneath every step.
At the top...
Someone waited.
Not Michael.
A woman.
Her back was turned toward me.
Brown hair.
The same height.
The same posture.
My voice cracked.
"Mom?"
She slowly turned around.
For one impossible second...
I believed it.
Then she smiled sadly.
"I'm not Elizabeth."
She stepped closer.
May you like
"My name is Eleanor."
"I've spent ten years pretending to be your mother."
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